


The Fish And The Swallow

by Garuda



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/F, Fade to Black, Fluff, very light foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9044969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garuda/pseuds/Garuda
Summary: The Witch has been mostly good all year. All she wants for Christmas is someone's shoulder that she can lean her head on. Someone...cool.





	1. The Beat Breaks And Your Teeth Break

She doesn't remember what made her strike him. Or rather, she doesn't remember the specifics. In a previous life, she was infamous and not particularly liked. But a woman can only be pushed so far.

Most would say she was tall, shapely. Long blonde hair that was bound in a bun beneath a black wide-brimmed conical hat, save for a flowing fringe that came down the left side of her face. A strapless low-cut dress that showed off the beauty spots on her chest, reaching to her ankles but cut generously at both sides to show off long legs in thigh-high leather boots, spiked soles and fastened with thunderbolt-decorated buckles. A short mantle and a bolero jacket from which metal wings hung from. Skin-tight evening gloves, with diagonal cuts. All of these in blacks and browns, with a splash of orange and yellow, the colors of autumn. The former Wicked Witch of the Wilds, now just the Witch. Reformed.

Not that it mattered to the people of Grimsvig, who stared at her in the silvery winter night with eyes that glittered with fear, anger, and bewilderment. Some hid. Others froze in place. And still others were reflexively reaching for weapons in anticipation of further violence.

The Witch felt the sting of pain in her hand. She looked down. Four canines stuck in her knuckles and fingers, leaving trails of blackening blood in her gloves.

The large hulking man at her feet started to sob, both hands wrapped over his mouth in a futile attempt to stem the gushing blood. Shattered teeth and splattered blood was strewn across the icy ground. The Witch stepped away, pulling the teeth out of her hand, her own teeth gritting in pain at each tug. _Useful for later_ , she thought, tucking the bloody canines away in a bit of cloth and into one of her pockets.

It was always like this. Every few months for the past year she would come down the mountain to trade and barter. Skins and bones and herbs and hexes, hunted or foraged or learned from the Alpine in the preceding season. And every time she would leave empty-handed or with an inequitable trade.

Today was the first time she let that anger out. It simultaneously thrilled and sickened her, this reminder of the person she used to be. She shuddered, and not just from the cold.

The Witch sighed. She spun her heel, turned around, and went out the way she came. But in her path was two large buckets, covered with cloth. Beneath were two large sacks of wheat flour each. A bribe? Or a sacrifice? Please take this and leave us alone. Whatever the intention, the gist was clear, and it was more than enough to feed her through the winter, but not by much. The Witch replaced the cloth, mounted the buckets on her broom, lifted it up on her shoulders without any visible difficulty, and headed home.

The Witch sighed. She did not hate Christmas. The Witch just hated spending Christmas sober.

It was a good thing she had plenty of booze and was expecting another delivery soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write Witch Mercy and Frostbite Pharah falling in love and then this whole extended holiday universe thing took form.
> 
> The working title for this was 'A Christmas Fucking Miracle' because it occurs during the Christmas season, fucking happens, and a literal miracle occurs (eyyyyy). But that tone of bitterness and defiance just didn't carry through. So, metaphors/similes about incompatibility instead.
> 
> Posted just in time for Christmas day. Happy holidays, everyone.


	2. Even Danced With The Devil, Came Out Alright

Goblets clinked in the dim candlelit cottage that dark winter's day. A fire roared in the hearth, while the snow-carrying winds howled over the mountain.

"Waes hael." said the short, stout man. Wool coat, floppy tasseled hat, and trousers, all red with white fur trim. A great lacquered wooden claw not unlike that of a lobster where his left hand was, that moved as if alive. Thick black leather gloves and belt and steel-toed boots, scuffed with use. A great white beard that came down to his knees, braided into two tails that both ended in golden bells. Spectacles with spyglass-thick lenses sitting on a red, bulbous nose. The world-famous Nicholas Lindholm, Bishop of Myra. Patron saint of sailors, archers, thieves, brewers, and children. Gift-Giver. Miracle-Worker. Demon-Binder. Toy-Maker. De Goedheiligman, Father Christmas, Santa Claus.

"Drink well." replied the Witch, twice the man's height. Whenever they met she had to repress the urge to bend stoop or kneel. Of the mulled cider they did take heavy sips, savoring the spice.

"Now that be good wassail," said Lindholm, sighing in satisfaction.

"Indeed," replied the Witch, enjoying her share. The Saint was always wandering the world in that ridiculous sleigh of his, passing out overwrought gifts and doing Devil-Knows-What tomfoolery heroics. To drink ritual cider from Albion whilst living in the Alps was one of the few advantages of their...relationship? They were not really friends, as this was how he was with everyone. Always making sure you were on your best behavior. _A carrot for when you are good_ , said the Saint. _And sticks for when you do ill_ , said the Monster. She unconsciously touched the silver jingle bells hanging from her earlobes at the thought.

But she genuinely enjoyed his company, at times.

"Vhen was the last time ve had wassail together, Frau Ziegler?" The mere mention of her family name the Witch's fading smile vanish completely, tightening into a frown. She had given up that name a long time ago. None of her relations survived the passage of time, and she had certainly never told anyone of her past. How the Saint knew anyway, she couldn't divine (literally, she had tried), but that was his way, infuriating as it was.

"Oh, I think the Mars campaign?" said the Witch. "When we beat Formido and Timorus both."

"Feh. I remember those two. Ye'd think panic and dread would put up a better fight."

"I thought it was rather difficult, myself." The Witch took another long sip.

"No, ye didn't. I remember ye laughed. What's eating ya? Tell me honest."

"It is nothing, really," said the Witch through another sip of cider.

Lindholm, not buying it for a moment, continued to stare, intently.

"Very well. It has been a year since the last campaign, and...there is no one who wants to spend time with me. You, I only see once a year. I am...lonely, I suppose. And it has been even longer since..."

"Since ye got fucked?"

"Nicholas!" the Witch cried, raising a hand to her mouth, half in mock surprise, half in genuine distress. "Please."

"What, Frau Ziegler? Jus' speaking honest. Ye know I have a mighty grand thirst for the peckers."

"I swear, you are the worst saint I had e'er had the displeasure of knowing." laughed the Witch, elbowing the chuckling bishop playfully.

"So...nobody to spend the winter with? I remember ye being real chummy with that Hessian."

"Nicholas, I love Wilhelm. I really do. He is a kind soul, a darling man. But is far too loud for me to bear long, and he has family. His brother's son is expecting another child, and you know how he is with children."

"Jack, Ana, Hanzo, Scrooge?"

The Witch snorted. "If you believe those hunters trust in my reformation, then you are sorely mistaken. They all shot me, multiple times each, and left me in the mud to die. No, they have no love for me, and neither I for them."

"What about yer friend, Gabriel?"

"He was my reanimated servant, no friend of mine. Ever since we joined your merry band of misfits and monsters, exchanging his pumpkin-head and soul-reaping for shivers and spirits of vengeance - becoming an "angel of the ice," in his words - he has refused to even speak to me. Not that I blame him, for we were rather terrible people. And I the worse of the pair."

"Did ye meet **anyone**  new this year?" asked Lindholm sternly.

"I met a...what do you call them. An abominable snowman, wandering the mountains? Unceasingly polite, incredibly learned, but ungainly. Wore spectacles. I have not the foggiest idea what he is doing out here, and I did not think to ask."

"I'd invite ye to spend the mass wit me, but..."

"Only one man has to work on Christmas' Eve, and that's you, yes, I know."

"'ey, boss! Get a move on! We're gonna be late!" called Jingle from behind the door. An utterly ridiculous name for an utterly ridiculous person. Wearing utterly ridiculous clothes! Green, green, more green! Pixie boots! A leaf-colored tunic with a jingle-belled skirt! Goggles! Honestly, where does Lindholm even find these people? The bells on the Witch's ears - usually formed from gold or brass - were a special make and gift from that elfin girl. _Jingle bells from Jingle!_ she had said at the time, when presenting it to her. Utterly infuriating. All of them.

"I'm comin', I'm comin'." said Lindholm, setting down his goblet.

"You had best be going, then. Thank you for the wassail." she said, gesturing to the barrel set in the corner.

"Yeah, yeah. I got oceans of the stuff, can't drink it all, not even me. But first," and with that, the saint grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly in a warm grip, even as his claw patted it warmly. The Witch was startled, partly by the sudden show of affection, partly by the pain, and spilled some of her drink. "Ye've done well this year. It does me great pride to see ye on the right path, fighting the good fight with me. I know that for yer efforts, God will grant yer wish. And when he does, ye will know that ye had done the right thing."

The Witch blushed. "Nicholas, please." Did he know about what happened in Grimsvig? It was usually safe to assume he did.

"An' before I forget...yer present for this year." said Lindholm as he removed from one of his pockets an oaken box, clasped tightly with a wooden knot made from the box itself, just large enough for a bit of jewelry. "When the time is right...it vill open."

The Witch was taken aback. While she had always known of the Saint's generosity, she had never considered that he would include her in the lists of "The Good." Those worthy to receive presents. Without thinking, she reached out and pulled him close, tucking his head right below her chest.

" _Thank you_ ," whispered the Witch through watering eyes, voice thick.

"Ye've earned it." said Lindholm, as stubby but well-muscled arms wrapped around her waist, nearly squeezing the life out of her.

"What is it?"

"A little slice of winter, to keep with ye, always."


	3. Love What You Did With The Place, It Looks Gorgeous

It was funny the first two days. Contemplating what could be inside the box, creating theories and studying the make. Considering what workings could fasten that knot so tightly closed. But she had little patience for delayed gratification and even less for puzzles. By the end of the third day, after the weather had well and truly made travel impossible, she was convinced that the Saint deliberately made it impossible to open just to frustrate her.

At the fifth day, she was absolutely certain that the Saint had once and for all exhausted any goodwill they shared. She wasn't going to start declaring war on the people and turn to evil, because who wants to die, **again**? But the next time? When he came over? She was obligated to throw the wassail in his face. And then laugh about it.

The Witch lay in the middle of her cottage, groaning, her body aching from exertion. Flames roared from the fireplace. Box-shaped dents peppered the wooden walls and pillars. Scorch-marks covered one side of the house. All the drills, hammers, pokers, and other such tools were laid in a pile next to the box, utterly unscathed. How dare it. How dare he.

A knock on the door. "Go away!" shouted the Witch, reflexively, not caring about who or what was at the door. "No visitors!"

The knocking grew ever insistent, forcing the Witch to stand and address it personally. She sighed in resignation as if the whole world was arrayed against her personally.

"I said,  **go away!** " the Witch shouted, throwing open the door.

The first thing the Witch saw was glittering ice, dazzling blues and silvers. The figure had broad shoulders, a thin waist, and very long legs. A suit of armor or an exoskeleton made of pale azure, silver, and ivory ice, vapor continually rising from it. A head hidden by a half-helm of the same, with small silver wings at the ears and a visor the shape of a beak of a bird of prey, hiding the eyes and nose and the shape but showing a well-defined jawline. Angular wings - more like fins, really - stretching from her back. The figure's left hand was clenched in a fist, raised in mid-knock, while the other supported the butt of a handheld howitzer, the miniature cannon leaning on her shoulder as if it weighed nothing more than a musket.

"Oh!" said the figure. "Uhhhhh-greetings!" The voice was femme in nature, with a hint of gravel and husk. A commanding presence.

"Who are you and what are you doing on my doorstep?" asked the Witch, crossing her arms and leaning in the doorway.

The woman gave a quick salute. "I am Frostbite. Knight of the Winter Watch, on a quest of justice and duty. The villagers in Grimsvig below asked that I slay the infamous Witch of the Wilds, that has been plaguing their lives, that they may have peace once again."

The Winter Watch? Court of seasonal spirits? They were not normally this attentive, nor solid. In fact, they tended to be obsessive, flighty creatures. Blizzards were moody clouds. Frosts were old folk intent on drawing shapes, convinced that each was a masterwork. Flurries were bubbly and bright. This was...something different.

"Is that so? Then why have you not tried to kill me yet?"

"Because you could not possibly be as evil as they say."

"Is this wise? To come to the door of your enemy, arms open with no killing intent?"

"I do not know of wisdom, Frau Witch. But I know in my heart what is just."

The Witch smiled, despite herself. And the spirit WAS giving her the time of day, so to speak...

"Now this, I want to hear. Do come in, will you not?"

* * *

Frostbite wolfed down spoon after spoon of the orange soup with a dizzying quickness. _So like a soldier_ , mused the Witch from across the ash table, idly feeding herself with her left while resting her head on her right, to better study the other woman. Eating with such speed, and yet not a drop spilled anywhere. _She must have very dexterous hands_ , thought the Witch, fantasizing about what she'd like to do with those fingers.

"Incredible. What kind of soup is this?"

"Pumpkin. With a rabbit stock."

Frostbite paused, a slice of bread half-eaten in her hand. "It tastes exceptionally fresh. Pumpkins are in season at the moment? I did not know."

"Of course not. I am a witch, darling. Defying God's will is my stock in trade."

"You don't mean that."

"No? Then why not you stop telling me what I mean and we get to the heart of the matter? Tell me your business here."

"Very well," says Frostbite, setting her spoon down. "Five cases of warts, four whooping coughs, three sick cows, one case of baldness which she swears must be a curse, and one house fire. Forgive me, but...you are the Witch of the Wilds. It is known that you have at least once, reversed **death itself.** So, either the Witch of the Wilds had much weaker magic than the stories suggest - a highly unlikely scenario - or..." Frostbite coughed. Was she staring at me? the Witch thought. It was hard to tell, what with the helmet hiding her features.

"...O-o-or, you are not actually doing anything, and they are blaming you for a run of bad luck."

"Why so charitable? Are not knights supposed to slay witches on sight, and let God sort it out?"

"The code of a knight is to serve justice with honor," said Frostbite sternly, crossing her arms. "To be charitable, to show compassion, to be kind. Slaying you on sight is none of those things."

"Am I really worth that consideration?"

"I do not believe there is anyone who is not." And it looked as if she believed it.

"So tell me, why come up here at all? Why not just voice your suspicions to the villagers, and let it be done?"

"I wanted to see you."

 _Ba-bum_. "What?"

"I wanted to look you in the eye and hear your side of the story." She looked so earnest. So willing.

The Witch sighed. "Very well. I have...been trying a new path. A better way. Trying to atone for my transgressions. I have worked no magic on the people of Grimsvig, neither to help nor to harm. Save for Dagmar only, whom I definitely cursed with hairlessness, for she did me injury. And that man I struck in the face. You see these?" says the Witch, brushing at one of the silver jingle bells hanging from her earlobes.

"They are...pretty? Like you?"

"Ha! You flatterer. Not that what you said was not true, but...I used to wear silver pumpkin filigrees here, back when I was...wicked. These I wear now are a badge of allegiance. To the holy days and its defenders. Jingle bells to ward away the evil spirits and summon good ones. Which am I? I still do not know."

"The answer seems obvious," said Frostbite. "If you still wear the bells, then you ward away the evil spirit in you and summon the good in yourself. As a reminder. You wear the bells still to become better."

The Witch smiled. _How I wish that were true._

* * *

Several hours of discussion later, Frostbite stood.

"Well. Thank you kindly for the meal, but I really must be going. I shall inform the people of Grimsvig that you were responsible for but a few of their pains, and to inform them of your arrival. And then we can get to building bridges, discuss an accord that benefits all of us."

The Witch bit her lip, looking away. She was hesitant, but about what? When she looked back, Frostbite had pulled back the latch and swung the door open. Outside, there was nothing for miles but a blank expanse of white, whilst the winds howled."

"Wait!" called the Witch. "Will you not stay? The weather is frightful, and I am afraid you might get lost."

Frostbite took a look out the door, and then back at the Witch. "It is only snow."

"I. Do not know what that means."

"It means that I am a child of winter, and I can be anywhere that there is snow and ice. Fish take to water, birds to the sky, and I to the icy winds."

"Even if you do, the villagers of Grimsvig will not open their doors. Best to stay here until the snow eases up. Please. Stay."

Frostbite took another look out the door, and then back at the Witch. Was that anticipation she saw in her manner? Excitement?

"If you insist," sad Frostbite, shutting the door.


	4. Want To Live For The Thrill?

"-if representatives of the law could be trusted to administer justice, someone like me would not be needed!" Frostbite all but shouted. "Not just crime and punishment, but justice of all forms. It is evil to be robbed by a thieving bandit, but it is just as evil to be taxed by a greedy monarch or usured into destitution, and both are absolutely legal. Laws may be made by moral individuals but any real moral content in a statute or ruling is coincidental to its legal content. There is nothing sacrosanct about the law."

"What about the laws of magic? Surely there is some code that is sacred."

Frostbite snorted. "I speak only of civic law. Besides, only a mortal would call life a law. Is it a law that the planets spin? Is it a law that water flows?"

"Is it not?"

They had spent several more hours reclining on the floor next to the fireplace, alternating between conversation and argument. Frostbite sitting straight, legs crossed, hands in her lap, while the Witch lazily lay on her hip, studying the spirit's every word and gesture. A bottle of wine and two glasses sat by the side, both half-empty. Frostbite proved to be a challenging study as her armor masked much of her facial and bodily expressions.

The Witch sat up, shrugged out of her jacket and mantle, before rolling her shoulders. Cracks and pops sounded from her joints and neck.

"Want me to help make it better?" asked Frostbite, flexing her fingers.

"Yes, please."

Icy hands grasped at the Witch's shoulders, causing her to cry out softly. "Don't stop. Please. Oooh, that is good," moaned the Witch, biting her lip.

"You have a lot of aches and tension. How did this happen?"

"My stupid Christmas gift. One of my friends thought it was funny to give me an unopenable box. Wore myself out trying to undo the lock. It is probably empty. Oh, how he will regret it," said the Witch, letting out a half-hearted cackle.

They sat in silence for a moment, as the Witch enjoyed the massage.

"What does a witch do, anyway?" Frostbite asked, hands working up and down the other woman's back.

" _Mmm_ , as if you do not know..." replied the Witch through half-lidded eyes.

"My meaning is, I understand that you work magic and such, that such a thing is called 'witchcraft,' but I do not know what separates you from a mage or a sorceress."

The Witch spun around, turning to face the spirit woman. "You are not joking, are you?" she asked, trying to find eyes to lock with. No such luck.

"What is the matter?"

"Oh, dear. I thought you were being forward, coming to see me like this. But you really do not know what you were getting into?"

"What is there to know?" asked Frostbite.

"They say - and by 'they' I mean common parlance - that witches dance with gods, truck with devils, and... **consort** with spirits."

"You mean...sex?" said Frostbite, her cheeks turning an even deeper shade of blue, which must surely be a blush. The Witch found that absolutely adorable.

"Sex, lovemaking, or to be crass, to fuck. Yes. That is what a witch does. Or at least, this one. The core of witchcraft is exploration of the universe through the body. You **are** familiar with sex, are you not?"

"Of course!" cried Frostbite, blushing even deeper. "Do not take me for a fool. I have done it with the men and women of my court. But now I am curious. Are there other kinds of witchcraft? There is much I do not know. The basis of my education was in alchemy."

"Very well. Sit straight and pay attention, for I do not want to repeat myself." Dutifully, Frostbite straightened her back and placed her hands on her knees with no hesitation.

"My friend, the Light, is a witch of sound. He is also known as a bard or a skald, and song is the medium through which he works. Some of his pieces would make you cry, some would make you laugh. Some would fill you with such haste, and still others can channel life itself. There is the Shadow, a witch of words itself. Oh, the tricks she could play..." and so the Witch spoke to Frostbite about the illustrious community of witches and her peers.

* * *

"...however, it is my opinion that the body and the mind are not so different or disconnected. Thought is molded by feeling, sensations affect one's cognition in turn. And both are actions of not merely the brain, but also the body entire, from the flow of blood to the fatigue you feel in the muscles. If my theories are correct, the boundaries between witchcraft and wizardry may have turned out to be totally arbitrary."

The entire time she had been expounding theory, the Witch was gathering up her courage, slowly moving closer to the spirit woman. She had always been forward and bold, even crass with her intentions, but something about Frostbite gave her pause.

Eventually, she could take it no more. The Witch grasped at Frostbite's hands, and raised one of them to her own cheek. Slowly, she shut her eyes. "You have lovely hands," said the Witch.

She could hear Frostbite began to breathe quicker, deeper, and the Witch smiled at the thought. "How about it? The path to understanding is best experienced. Craft witchery with me," the Witch said, kissing the ice-gauntleted hand gently, the cold leaving a pleasant sting on her lips. That was the most coy invitation she could muster.

Silence. Save for the sound of her heart going a-pitter a-patter. The Witch had closed her eyes because she felt she could not bear to look on Frostbite the way she was now. Not merely because she was dashing and brilliant and that armor was dazzling, glinting in the firelight, but because...

"Yes." Her eyes slammed open. _She's smiling_ , the Witch thought, her attention fully on the spirit's dimples, even as she dimly became aware of her own mouth stretching into a grin.

Frostbite pulled the Witch's hands back towards herself, standing them both up. The Witch just then noticed that Frostbite was a good few inches taller, which made her bite her lip in excitement.

The spirit released her hold, before raising her hands to her head. Still smiling. The Witch felt her heart thumping in her chest.

And with that, Frostbite removed her helmet, and what the Witch saw made her heart skip a beat. Jet-black shoulder-length hair the color and lustre of the deepest ice, the side bangs braided into plaits and bound with silver rings, the Witch's favorite metal. Full lips, a strong jaw. Pale blue-purple skin. Oval eyes that shone like lapis lazuli, lined with even darker purple, with two lines stretching out over the right cheek, one ending in a whorl. Handsome and dashing and so very, very alluring.

"You are beautiful," the Witch blurted out, despite herself.

"I think those should be my words?" said Frostbite, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her lips, laying her helmet on a table, clearly enjoying the effect she was having on the Witch.

"They say that the Wicked Witch of the Wilds is a corrupter of souls," Frostbite continued, sashaying ever-closer.

"-a despoiler of men-"

"And women."

" _-and women_ , as well as an ethereal beauty beyond compare. I simply had to come see for myself." Frostbite stopped, standing chest-to-chest with the Witch. Her jewel-like eyes scanned the length and breadth of every curve of her body, before coming to rest on the Witch's own eyes. Gazes met. An ice-armored arm wrapped around a thin waist, pulling her close, lightning and coolness shooting through the Witch's body where they touched.

"And they were right," said Frostbite with a smile that could only be described as devilish, dipping her low and laying a kiss on the Witch's mouth.

It was the Witch who broke the kiss, only to find their mouths stuck to each other from the cold. They straightened together, and with a little more kissing and licking, they managed to get their lips untangled. They stood there, in each other's arms, foreheads pressed together, savoring the moment.

"Did Nicholas put you up to this?" the Witch asked, her eyes scanning for any omission or change in demeanor.

"Who is Nicholas?" answered Frostbite, without skipping a beat.

Satisfied, the Witch turned to nuzzle the spirit's neck, nose brushing against cheek.

"No really, who the devil is Nicholas?" Frostbite asked, getting annoyed.

"I will tell you later," the Witch said, pressing her body against Frostbite's.

This time they kissed each other anywhere but the lips, each one quick and darting. On the forehead, on the eyelids, on the nose, on the neck...cold built up on the Witch's lips like a spice reaction.

Locking their fingers together, the Witch twirled the taller woman around in a dance-like spin, before pulling the spirit into herself, and there they stood, chest to back. The armor dug into the Witch's torso, but she was enjoying it. Wicked thoughts danced in her head as she ran her hands up from Frostbite's waist to her chest, feeling the seams in the armor.

With her left hand, the Witch brushed Frostbite's silken hair out of the way, kisses a-patter along the spirit's neck. Frostbite hummed in appreciation, eyes shut, savoring the sensation.

The Witch licked across Frostbite's neck, leaving a small pit on the spirit's soft skin and her own tongue covered with tiny ice crystals. As quickly as the snow melted in her mouth, the pit re-froze over, itself, leaving absolutely no trace. Delicious, was the first thing that came to her mind.

With her right, the Witch grasped Frostbite's right pauldron, but her grip slipped. Her molars ground against each other as she tried in vain to remove the piece of armor, this time grasping at the icicle. There seemed to be neither strap nor buckle to keep it on. Her fingers strained against the effort, and the Witch began to pant. Infuriatingly, Frostbite seemed to become even more aroused at the sounds of the Witch's exertions, and her hum grew louder, the pitch higher.

Finally, the Witch could take it no more. She gritted her teeth and put her mouth to the spirit's ear. " _How. Do. I. Get. This. Off._ " the Witch hissed.

"Hmm? Oh, damn it all." Frostbite exhaled, and the Witch could feel the spirit's muscles relax through the biting cold of the armor. Vapor expelled from the armor's seams, before falling to the ground in great glittering plates, leaving the spirit clad in nothing.

The Witch sighed in relief. "There. That's better," she said, running her hands from Frostbite's torso to her hips, feeling the sensation of cool, soft, snow-like skin, feeling her body with her own.

"Sorry," said Frostbite, looking sheepish over her shoulder, black hair falling over blue eyes. _Damnation_ , thought the Witch, as something not quite lust stirred in her. _Look at that face. I am ruined._

"Shut up," growled the Witch, seizing the spirit's chin, pulling her close so she could kiss her cold, cold lips once more.

Tongues press against each other, trading warmth. Legs lose strength, knees buckle, and they fall to the ground upon the warm fur. Frostbite is on her arms and knees as the Witch wraps arms around her waist, fingers gently probing for the right spot, whilst teeth nibble at snowy shoulders. Hot breath on skin melts recesses in the icy skin, dripping bead by bead into the rug.

"What...about...the bed...?" Frostbite panted out, turning to look at her.

"Damn the bed!" cried the Witch. Their gazes met once again, and as the blue pierced her carefully-constructed composure, she felt that same strange rhythm beat out a tattoo in her heart. " _And damn your eyes!_ "

They did not make it to bed after all.


	5. Mommy Already Had A Narrative

The Witch awoke. It was dark, wet, a weight resting upon her arm. Scattered across her body was stinging sensations.

And then she remembered.

 _Do not get your tongue stuck on her, do not get your tongue stuck on her, do not get your tongue stuck on her_ , still echoed through her mind as a mantra. Thoughts through repetition becomes power, power through instinct becomes form, form through will becomes reality; this was one but path of magic.

While the Witch was experienced in lovemaking, she had never done it with an ice spirit before, and so her first attempts failed miserably. Fortunately, Frostbite was more than willing to take charge and show her how to play. The icy hands on a restrained body was torture, but fun torture. One she wouldn’t mind trying again.

Blinking tears and grit out of her eyes, the Witch forced her eyes to focus. There on her arm slept Frostbite sweetly, black hair covering a blue. Before she knew recognized what she was doing, the Witch’s hand was brushing the hair out of Frostbite’s eyes, to better look at her face.

“Mmmph. What is it?” murmured Frostbite as she stirred awake.

“Oh!” cried the Witch, jolting upwards, scrambling to find something to talk about. “I am...merely curious about something. You are made of ice, yes?”

“In a sense. I would say that I am made of ice the way you are made of meat,” said Frostbite as she sat up herself, hugging her knees..

“So, how do you keep yourself from melting?”

“Well, meat spoils when it is in the sun, but remains healthy when it is a part of you because it is part of your system. All Winter spirits are sustained by the cold moisture of snow and ice; if we were to step in a place not covered by it, we would immediately perish, only to be reborn when next the ground is covered with the stuff, all memories lost. I would become Frostbite once again, as named by my function and Winter itself, but everything else I am, formed by my summoner and mother, would be lost.” As she spoke, Frostbite pulled closer so she could sit draped across the Witch’s lap.

“Is that why you are so…” trailed the Witch, curling an arm around Frostbite’s neck and shoulders.

“Different? Indeed,” said Frostbite, nodding. “My body is infused with various alchemical treatments so it may don the ice-plate that you had such a difficult time disrobing,” she said, with a mischievous nibble of the Witch’s ear. “It not only allows me to fly, but also draws frozen moisture even from the snow that covers your charming little cottage, even as I sit here next to the roaring fire. On you.”

The Witch blushed, and they were silent for a moment, comfortable in each other’s company.

“Who is your mother?” asked the Witch, breaking the silence.

A sharp intake of breath. An exhale, leaving miniscule ice crystals and a slight stinging sensation on the Witch’s shoulder. “That is...difficult to say. She formed me from Winter’s cold, raised me, loved me. Names and words come not naturally for us spirits, for experience “speaks” enough for us all. And as such I knew not her name, for I felt I did not need it. In turn, she called me two things in her own mother tongue; ‘habibti’ and ‘fareeha’, which I am told means ‘my love,’ and ‘joy’ respectively. Which of these names do you prefer?”

The Witch turned her head away, red-faced. Caught unguarded by Frostbite’s openness. Her stomach sank into itself.

“I am sorry. I should not have-” began Frostbite.

“No, no. Do not be.” interrupted the Witch, placing a single finger on icy blue lips. “You...you simply took me by surprise. Thank you for asking.” She removed the finger before lifting it to her own mouth, tapping in contemplation.

She sighed, swallowed, and took that leap. “Fareeha. I shall use ‘Fareeha.’ I like how it sounds, and besides,” says the Witch as she strokes Frostbite’s cheek. “-you do bring me joy.”

“What should I call you in turn? I cannot keep saying ‘Frau Witch’, you know.”

"No, no. You are right. That will not do. You call me Angela." the Witch said, burying her head in Frostbite's shoulder, content.

* * *

 Sometimes they did it with Frostbite's armor on. Sometimes the Witch was clad in nothing but her hat. Sometimes they just slept fitfully in each other's arms. But most nights they just stayed up and talked, sleeping through the cold winter days.

But eventually, the worst of the season had passed, and the snows had begun to melt. And so it was that the Witch and Frostbite descended from the mountain to Grimsvig. With Frostbite’s mediation, apologies were made on all sides, negotiations conducted, accords drawn. The Witch was given a title and a salary - paid in food and other such necessities - becoming the official Town Occultist. In turn, Dagmar’s curse of hairlessness was lifted, although she was in a sour mood for many months therein as her hair had to grow out. A feast was held for all, and while the table spread was modest for the lean winter, their cups and their hearts overflowed in joy.

And so it was.

* * *

 Some days later.

"Must you leave?" the Witch asked, as they walked together out to the edge of town.

"I am afraid so. The royals of Winter sojourn to the poles for the Spring, and I must follow." The villagers had all come out to see Frostbite off, and they kept their distance from the two out of respect, not fear. All smiles, chattering, and keeping busy. It felt simultaneously unsettling and comforting.

“Then kiss me,” said the Witch, quietly, looking away. “To say goodbye.”

The kiss they shared was sudden. The Witch’s fingers dug into Frostbite’s icy hair, her other hand drifting down an armored hip. Ice-plated arms wrapping around a pale neck, leaving that stinging feeling she loved so. They had kissed many times in the past days, but this one seemed the sweetest, and carried with it the bitterness of goodbye. The Witch’s heart quickened its beat in a sickening thrill, like steam trapped in a kettle on a stove. She could hear the cheering of men, women, and children, but it seemed so distant, so inconsequential.

The Witch felt Frostbite breaking away first, but she jammed her eyelids shut, and kept her hand on the spirit woman’s face, and pulled ever closer.

"Open your eyes,” she heard Frostbite say.

"No. If I open my eyes, I will have to see and not feel you. And then you will be gone."

Frostbite's laugh was throaty, rich, and sounded vaguely of tinkling bells and flexing metal. "Angela, please."

The Witch sighed. “Very well.” She opened her eyes. There she was, so bright and blue and beautiful. And off the edge of her vision, the villagers, all eyes on them. “But only because it would never work between us. We are too different. I am a fish, who dwells below. Who swims in the darkness.”

“A fish? Really? Then what am I?”

“You are a swallow, free to fly where’er you please. You go to where I would and could never follow. Where might we build a home? No, our fate is to roam alone fore’er more.”

Frostbite nodded, smiled, and looked away. “If that is what you feel, then I suppose that this is goodbye. But I will return, to see if you have changed your mind.”

The Witch said nothing.

Frostbite relaxed her embrace, stepped back, strapped on her helmet, and rolled her shoulders back. Angular fins of sheet ice grew from the shoulder-blades, flexing experimentally. She gave one last look at the Witch, smiled sadly, and knelt. The ground rumbled as she shot into the sky, disappearing past the clouds.

“Frau Witch?” called a high voice somewhere below her. Startled, the Witch looked down.

“Yes, Gertrude?” answered the Witch. Small, black-haired, and plump was the child, with wonderfully-red cheeks.

“Why not build a house at the edge of the river?” Gertrude asked, eyes wide.

The Witch said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New year, huh?
> 
> One more chapter, and then we're done.


	6. Love's Importance

_"What is it?"_

_"A little slice of winter, to keep with ye, always."_

_“Now, why would I want that? Is it not cold enough?”_

_“Autumn needs Winter, don’tcha know.”_

_“What does that even mean? Is this a puzzle? To torment me?”_

_“Nay. Not at all.”_

_“Honestly, you should not have, Nicholas. The best gift I could ever receive, the thing I wanted most in the world...was to have someone believe in me. And you have already done that.”_

_The Saint shook his head. “Nay, dear heart. Ya’re just sayin’ that. Ye want to believe that. I know ya still keep a part o’ yer heart closed ta me. Which is fine, I’ve been yer captor and all that. We ain’t quite friends, at least, naught now. But someone vill come along, that ye vill love, and be loved in turn. And when it happens...ye vill be surprised.”_

_“Surprised. Me. Really, Nicholas?”_

_Santa nodded. “Like a bolt from the blue.”_

* * *

It was in the middle of Spring when it came to her.

The Witch was busy tidying up her cottage, sweeping dirt and ill luck away, broom in hand. The rush of the warmer days had come and gone; securing food, warning away predators, making repairs. No snow in sight save for up on the mountains. Green grassy plains, blue skies with white clouds, and other such things one expected from the Alpine regions.

In other words, no chance in all the hells for her lover to drop by.

_Lover._

She scarcely had time for the realization to register before she heard that rattling sound. All bells and drums and thumps, resounding through the cottage and her head. The Witch turned her head, and saw the oaken box leap up and down like a grasshopper.

_My gift._

Suddenly, the box slammed down into the table, sending great fissures down the wood. The knot undid itself, and the lid flew open. Whiteness and cold erupted from it, covering everything in sight in pale, shimmering powder.

It took everything the Witch had to get her broom and push the still-erupting box out of the cottage. Upon clearing the door, the box doubled its output, sending out vast freezing plumes of sparkling white in every direction, propelling it into the air. The Witch could do little more but fall to her knees, shield her face, and close her eyes. Help.

And just as explosively as it began, the explosion passed. Opening her eyes, the Witch saw the box sputter a last few coughs before plopping to the ground, spent. The din also died back down, and silence filled the air.

Standing up slowly, feeling battered and bruised, the Witch brushed the powder from herself, and took stock. All around her was freshly-laid snow, which even now continued to fall in large drifts. The sky was dark, but by the light of the moon she could still see that the snow only covered a circle around her cottage, with a diameter of about a mile. _If you did not know any better, you would think that there was a very light avalanche._ A thought began to form in her mind.

"Angela,” a familiar voice called, shocking her from her reverie. “What did you do? What is this?"

"Ice and snow,” the Witch replied, twirling around, trying to find the source, her mouth curling unconsciously into a wide smile. “In Spring. A little slice of Winter, to keep with me, always. Thank you, Nicholas.”

"What? Who the hells is Nicholas?" Frostbite asked, flying into view and reach, helmet in hand.

Upon seeing her, the Witch raised her broom, and uttered a command. Bands of force lightly gripped Frostbite, and upon that tether the Witch shot through the air. Startled, Frostbite dropped her helmet and extended her arms to catch the Witch, dipping low.

The Witch flew into Frostbite's arms, mouth upon mouth, drinking deep like she was dying of thirst. Their lips stuck together again, but the Witch did not care. When they finally stopped, and managed to get untangled, the Witch took a deep breath.

"I love you. That is what I did, what I realized. I love your eyes and your lips and your hands and your courage and your kindness. I love your little japes, infuriating as they are. I love that you believe in me. Above all else, I love that you make me love myself."

"And I you. I also love you. But you did not need me to help you love yourself. I do however, like to think I helped."

“I thought I was not good enough for you. I no longer believe that.”

They kissed again.

“Wait. Why in the hells are you here? It is Spring,” said the Witch as they began their descent, hand-in-hand.

“I...missed you. I thought...that If I was going to be a swallow that loved a fish, then I thought it would be best to learn how to swim.”

“You would drown.”

“I had to try.”

With a quick flourish of her hand, the Witch slapped the back of Frostbite’s head.

“No, you did not. Never do that again. Never take that kind of risk. I would rather live forever a spinster in the snowless wastes than have you gone,” she scolded.

“Understood,” said Frostbite, playfully wincing and rubbing the back of her head.

They kissed again, now taking their time.

"Now, Fareeha, how about you help me clean up the cottage?" asked the Witch as their feet touched ground. "Nicholas' gift made a mighty fine mess."

"Angela, please. I just got here. I am your guest." Something glinted in the snow, too bright to be ice or frozen water.

"Not anymore, you are not." said the Witch as she bent over, scooping up the box before fiddling with it for a moment.

"What?"

The Witch turned around, holding up two silver rings. "You are my bride."

Frostbite lifted an eyebrow. "I did not take you for a church-going woman. What minister would marry us? A devil-worshiper and a pagan spirit?"

"One, how dare you. I am not." And with that, the Witch took Frostbite's hand and slipped one of the rings on, while slipping on her own. "There. You are my bride now. Simple as that,” she said, holding up her hand, wiggling her fingers, beaming.

“I...see. While this is sudden, this-” Frostbite said, wiggling her own ringed hands in delight “-is certainly more like you.”

"Two, if we absolutely need a ceremony, we can ask the Bishop of Myra to officiate."

"Wait, how do you know the Bishop of Myra?"

"He is the one that gave me that unopenable box. With the little slice of winter."

"...your friend Nicholas is Saint Nicholas. Father Christmas. Honorary King of Winter. **Hell's bells.** What have I gotten myself into?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First five chapters, published on Christmas Day, 2016. Last chapter, published on 7th of January, 2017.
> 
> This is my first attempt at prose after about ten years. I hate and I love it.
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone.


End file.
